


no single bite could satisfy

by jk_rockin



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Hand Feeding, M/M, Sickfic, lowkey d/s vibes because that's how I roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5504336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jk_rockin/pseuds/jk_rockin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can feed myself," Matt says defensively. "I'm not a child, Foggy."</p>
<p>"And this spoon isn't really an airplane, but I'm willing to pretend if you are," says Foggy, waggling the spoon, and sighing when Matt frowns. "Okay, no airplane, but I made you soup, and you're going to eat it without getting it all over yourself. Be grateful it's not in a sippy cup."</p>
<p>"A sippy cup wouldn't boss me around," Matt grumbles, but he opens his mouth anyway, and lets Foggy guide the spoon to his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no single bite could satisfy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt on the Daredevil kink meme](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/5006.html?thread=9222798#cmt9222798): _Matt Murdock, if he wants to eat, is at the mercy of the person who is currently feeding him. Up to the filler on whether it’s a consensual thing with Foggy, like a candle-light dinner that Matt endures with silk-tied hands, a pet AU type thing where that is the preferred way of Matt’s owner for feeding him, or a regular sick-fic, where Matt is bed-bound and either too groggy or too injured to feed himself. Less angst and more light-heartedness/fluff preferred, but fine with everything!_
> 
> (something like that, anyway, except I got ~feelings all over it, and took THREE MONTHS to write it.)
> 
> My love letter to Foggy Nelson: Sweet Bro Dom, and handfeeding, which is- you might pick this up from the text- A Thing for yours truly. Title from _Caramel_ , by Suzanne Vega; characters courtesy of Marvel; perversity dredged from the terrible swamps of my id, although by my standards this is actually pretty tame. WILL I EVER WRITE SOMETHING WITHOUT D/S OVERTONES? SIGNS POINT TO NO.
> 
> Thanks and more thanks to the wonderful [Shut_Up_Marius](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shut_Up_Marius), who has endured endless texting about this story; to [Ahavaa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahavaa/pseuds/Ahavaa), who reassured me that the first half didn't suck; and [fishmouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fishmouse), moon of my life.

"I'm fine," Matt says, and immediately ruins it by shuddering violently.

"Uh huh," says Foggy dryly. "You're shivering and sweating recreationally, I get it."

"It's just a cold," Matt insists, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders.

"All the years you and I have known one another, Murdock, and you're still a shitty-ass liar." Foggy crouches down next to the couch where Matt's huddled up, and presses the back of his hand to Matt's forehead, his skin blessedly cool against Matt's, which is burning hot and damp with sweat. Possibly Matt is not fine. "You're burning up. Not too snotty, though- something flu-esque, probably, not full on flu. How long have you been like this?"

"Got in late," Matt grits out, trying to stop himself shaking by force of will. "Went to bed. Woke up when you got here."

"I take it 'got in late' is code for 'stayed out all night in my fetish gear, punching evil in the face'. Matt, it was _pouring_ last night. You must've got soaked! No wonder you're sick." Foggy sighs deeply. "God, I sound like my mom."

"'m fine, Foggy," Matt says, leaning into his hand- feeling his forehead devolved, at some point, into Foggy petting Matt's hair, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. Matt doesn't mind. It's nice. Soothing.

"Doesn't actually get more convincing the more you say it, pal. I'm calling Karen, we're taking the day off." Matt makes a noise of protest, but it's muffled by the blanket. "It's ten thirty, you're still in your pajamas, and you're not well. We can take a day."

Sighing, Matt curls into the back of the couch, shoulders hunching, eyes slipping closed. Foggy being kind to him is- he likes it, obviously, but it always feels like more than he deserves. "You don't have to-"

"Zip it. You will get some rest, even if I have to tie you to this couch to make it happen." Foggy's fingers tighten in Matt's hair for the briefest moment as he stands up, and he smooths it down where his petting has ruffled it up. "Stay. I'll be back in a bit." Matt intends to object, to get up and prove he's functional, but he hears Foggy closing the door as he leaves, and he figures he's got time to gather his strength a little more before he gets back. He can lie here for another minute. Maybe five.

He wakes again to Foggy perching on the edge of the couch and handing him a glass of water. "Tylenol. Even you can't bitch about paracetamol," Foggy says, pressing pills into his hand. Matt puts them in his mouth, and tries to swallow some water, but his hands are still wobbly, and he ends up spilling half the water on the blanket. Clicking his tongue, Foggy takes the glass back, and cups the back of Matt's head with his other hand, bringing the glass up to Matt's mouth. He expects Foggy to let him go once he's got the pills down, but he doesn't; he feeds Matt what's left in the glass in slow sips, blunt nails gently scratching Matt's scalp. "There you go. Feel a little better?"

Matt nods. "Didn't know I was thirsty," he says.

"Seventy percent water," says Foggy, ruffling his hair. He leaves the glass on the coffee table (hauled in from a stoop sale to replace the one Stick smashed up) and heads over to the kitchen. Matt hears the rustle of paper bags- groceries, he thinks- and tries to sit up, struggling to orient himself in relation to the rest of the room, to sense where Foggy is. "Keep your butt on that couch, mister. Your sheets are gross and sweaty, and I brought food, since I figure you haven't eaten, the state you're in."

Inhaling through his nose, Matt picks out scents- garlic, chicken stock, dry pasta. It takes him too long to separate each scent out from the mishmash of smells in the bags, and even longer to pick out where Foggy is in the room. Wherever this flu came from, it's thrown his equilibrium off badly; he's still too hot, his joints ache, and his senses are fuzzy and confused. "Chicken and stars?"

"You know it." Foggy shakes the packet of pasta with a flourish. "Go back to sleep, I'll wake you when it's ready."

He doesn't sleep, but he lets himself drift. Outside, the morning rush has wound down to the steadier rhythm of daytime traffic, noise patterns migrating from the empty apartments around his to the streets, to the stores and offices nearby; inside, his focus narrows to Foggy, warm and familiar. His heart is calm and even, a comforting metronome behind the sounds of footsteps and the hiss of the stove as he putters around Matt's kitchen. It's nice, domestic, and if Matt lets himself wallow a little, that's fine. He's allowed.

He listens, drowsily, to Foggy humming as he dishes out soup into a bowl, and he gets so distracted by the humming he's almost startled when the couch cushions dip under Foggy's weight. Matt shuffles backwards so he's sitting up, propped against the arm of the couch, and reaches for the bowl in Foggy's hands. "Nuh-uh," Foggy says, batting Matt's hand away. "I saw you with the water glass, butterfingers." There's a spoon already in the bowl, clinking against the china as Foggy picks it up, scooping soup from the edge, where it's cooler. "Let me."

"I can feed myself," Matt says defensively. "I'm not a child, Foggy."

"And this spoon isn't really an airplane, but I'm willing to pretend if you are," says Foggy, waggling the spoon, and sighing when Matt frowns. "Okay, no airplane, but I made you soup, and you're going to eat it without getting it all over yourself. Be grateful it's not in a sippy cup."

"A sippy cup wouldn't boss me around," Matt grumbles, but he opens his mouth anyway, and lets Foggy guide the spoon to his lips.

The soup is really good. Foggy can cook, when he can be bothered; he's used a good quality organic chicken stock, and added garlic, some ginger, carrots cut up small. Nicely balanced, nothing too overpowering. And he's good at this, too- just like when he's guiding Matt, he's gentle, patient, feeding him in measured spoonfuls, handling Matt's well-being with sure-handed ease. It's shockingly intimate, and Matt spills soup down his chin when he realises he's half-hard.

"Whoa, careful there," says Foggy softly, scraping the spill off Matt's skin with the bowl of the spoon. "This is Gammy Nelson's chicken soup, buddy. It's not to be wasted."

Matt curls in on himself, praying the drape of the blanket over his knees isn't giving him away, and wipes at his chin with the back of his hand. "Gammy Nelson would turn in her grave if she caught you using pre-made chicken stock," he says, and his voice is thick in his own ears, blood hot in his cheeks. What is he doing?

"I'm a disgrace to the family," Foggy says solemnly. "Come on, finish it before it gets cold."

Now that Matt's noticed- Jesus, his senses must be knocked around if he's too distracted to notice _his own arousal_ , it's not like him at all- now he's noticed, it's all he can focus on. _Foggy_ is all he can focus on, cool and solid against his thigh, the soft rasp of his jeans against the leather of the couch (his weekend jeans, he went home and changed out of his work clothes to come look after Matt) and his breath in the air, tasting of coffee and water from Matt's filter. His hands smell like garlic, like the soap in Matt's kitchen, and the rest of him smells so... Foggy. The smell of Foggy is as much a part of Matt's life as anything is, has been for years, through every change of shampoo brand and laundry powder; the base note of living, breathing human underneath the rest of it is the one he likes best. He knew it made him feel good, but he didn't know- hadn't realised- it could turn him on as well.

God help him, Matt is so fucked.

He eats the last few mouthfuls slowly, chewing and swallowing deliberately. His cock is hard in his sweatpants, and every brush of fingertips against the stubble on his jaw just winds him up tighter. He's not kidding himself- he's lingering, drawing it out, and Foggy's letting him, unwittingly torturing Matt with his kindness. Matt's taking advantage. He doesn't know how to stop.

Eventually the bowl is empty, and Foggy's hands still, with a last, excruciating pass of his thumb over Matt's lower lip. "An actual meal for once," he says, shaking the bowl and making the spoon rattle around. "And with next to no complaining! We should do this more often."

For the first time since he woke up sweating, Matt's glad he's already feverish, so he probably doesn't noticeably flush. "You're not eating?"

Foggy stands up, leaving Matt's side suddenly cold. "I might later. Ate breakfast before I left for work. Like an _adult_ ," he says, ambling over to the kitchen to rinse out the bowl.

"An adult with a taste for Apple Jacks," Matt says. He tugs the blanket closer, trying to keep Foggy's warmth for himself.

"Mature, adult cereal choice. Still super creepy that you can smell that, if you were wondering," Foggy says. He opens the fridge, puts something inside- plastic on glass, liquid sounds; he's put the soup in a container- and shuts it again. "I made enough for dinner and leftovers, so you've got something easy to eat."

"You're too good to me," Matt says. He means it to sound flippant, but the second it's out of his mouth he knows he's failed- Foggy's heartbeat skips, just a little, breath catching in his throat. He's tried to stop saying things like that, since Foggy found out about the Devil. The trust between them is too fragile for Matt to just say stuff like that, like he would have without thinking, before. It's too earnest, too open. Too much.

"Buddy," says Foggy, and Matt wants to put the blanket over his head and just stay there forever. He wants to bask in the warm affection in Foggy's voice, in the smile he can hear in his tone. He really wants to jerk off. This is a nightmare. "You're my best friend. If we don't look after each other, who will? Now," he says, footsteps loud in Matt's ears as he makes his way over to the couch. "You need anything else while I'm up?"

While he's up. He's planning to _stay_. "I should probably just go back to bed," Matt says cautiously. Foggy staying in his space when he's like this- he's horrified to note it sounds great, actually, but also, more rationally, like a very, very bad idea. "You don't have to stay."

"I brought my laptop," Foggy continues, cheerfully relentless, sitting down on the other end of the couch. "Still got those files to go over for the Donovan case, and I packed headphones, for when the siren call of Netflix and your nice beer gets too strong to ignore. You go ahead and rest. I'll be quiet."

Matt sighs. He remembers how his sheets smelled when he woke up- can smell them now, if he concentrates, his own sweat and the sour twist of illness- and he really doesn't want to get back in his bed. He can't make Foggy leave. He doesn't want to, even if that does make him creepy. "Okay," he says. "I'm just going to... sleep."

He doesn't sleep. He lies there, almost vibrating out of his skin, hyper-aware of every movement Foggy makes, until finally, finally, his dick gets the idea and calms down, and then he dozes, inexplicably lulled by the sounds of Foggy's heartbeat and breathing, and the rhythm of his fingers on his laptop keyboard as he makes notes. He still twitches and jumps when Foggy 'wakes' him a few hours later to feed him more water and Tylenol, and quietly hates himself for not arguing when Foggy doesn't even try to put the glass in his hands- he just opens his mouth and drinks obediently, leaning into Foggy's touch. He goes on hating himself while he pretends to still be too groggy to get up, and while he listens to Foggy stripping the icky sheets off his bed and putting on fresh ones, and when Foggy finally gives up on working, gets himself a beer and an orange from Matt's fruit bowl, and settles back down on the couch to watch movies on his laptop, he hates himself for tucking his feet under Foggy's thigh, and tries not to sigh too audibly when Foggy absently strokes a hand over his knee and leaves it there.

*

It's been nearly a week of Matt feeling twitchy and off-balance, hiding in his office all day and staying out to patrol later than he should at night. He's tired, meditating more than really sleeping, and he knows he's being a bad friend and a worse colleague, but. But.

It's not that Foggy's done anything wrong. He came to take care of him, and as much as he hates needing help- needing anything- he knows he'd have taken twice as long to recover without Foggy looking after him. It's just that being back in the office, he's realising how true that is all the time. Foggy's always bringing him things. He brings him water whenever he comes over to ask a question. He picks up coffee for all three of them a couple of mornings a week, reminds him and Karen to eat lunch when they forget. He's been that guy as long as Matt's known him, quietly attentive to the needs of the people around him. "The Mom Friend," he'd said once, wry but smiling. "I'm the Mom Friend, you can say it."

Foggy already gives him so much. Wanting more from him would be selfish. Greedy.

Still, he's terrible at saying no to Foggy, so when he leans against Matt's door frame on Friday afternoon and invites him out for a drink, he hears the uncertainty in Foggy's voice, and he shrugs on his jacket and goes. They shut the office early, and say goodbye to Karen, who declines to join them. "I love you both very much, but I actually have other plans," she says, shouldering her handbag. "There's such a thing as overexposure."

"Too much of a good thing," says Foggy, nodding sagely. "Go, have fun, and return on Monday with your standards lowered." He doesn't narrate Karen flipping him off.

Foggy offers Matt his arm automatically as they come down the steps- the sort of thing he does all the time without Matt really noticing, the things Matt now can't stop thinking about- and they walk to Josie's in silence, interrupted only by Foggy narrating street light changes and obstacles. It's quiet in the bar, too, but for a few people playing pool in the back, who wave to them; Matt figures they must be regulars, feeling Foggy wave back. He guides Matt over to a table, and fetches a bottle and glasses from Josie.

"To being self-employed," Foggy says, pouring Matt a drink. Matt chuckles, clinking their glasses together, and takes a sip. He hadn't asked Foggy what they were drinking, because it's usually whatever they can afford, but this is surprisingly nice scotch, considering.

"Not for long, if we keep playing hooky to drink middle-shelf liquor," Matt says. "What's the occasion?"

"We're young men in the finest city on Earth, my friend," says Foggy, finishing his drink, and pouring himself another. "Young, fancy lawyers, world at our feet. Every night's an occasion!" He raises his glass at Josie, who snorts derisively, and goes back to polishing glasses. "Really, though, I thought alcohol was a good idea before I made a run at addressing the boner issue."

Matt chokes, scotch burning his windpipe, but doesn't spill his drink. Minor victory. "Boner issue?"

"When I came over to look after you when you were sick," says Foggy, sounding supremely unconcerned. "I fed you soup, you got a boner, and now you're being weird about it."

"I'm not being weird!" In retrospect, maybe he's been a little weird, actually, but he hadn't expected Foggy to call him on it. He should have. Foggy always calls him on it. "I didn't think there was anything to talk about."

"Me neither, until you brought back the hermit act. You are a mess of tells, Mister Murdock. Never take up poker," Foggy says.

Under the noise of the bar, of the street outside, Matt can hear Foggy's heartbeat, just a little faster than usual; it sounds like he's nervous. Foggy's almost never nervous when it's just him and Matt. "How did you know?" he asks. "I didn't even- how did you _know_?"

"Call it a sixth sense. I can feel the delicate boner vibrations in the air." Foggy wiggles his fingers. "Plus, you blush when you're turned on, in case you didn't know. You go all red."

"You knew," Matt says, feeling his stomach clench. All the shit they've been through, and this is how it ends- Matt and his stupid haywire sex drive, ruining yet another relationship, only this time it's Foggy. "You knew, and you just, what, let me lie there and freak out?"

"I'm kind of a prick that way," Foggy says agreeably. "Also, you know, I was _respecting your boundaries_. Your boners are your business, but I-"

"Please stop saying 'boner'," Matt says, miserably.

"But I figured," Foggy continues, "I figured maybe this one was kind of my business, too, when you kept being all awkward about it. You only get squirrelly about the important stuff." He pauses, reaching across the table, and brushes the backs of his fingers against Matt's. It's the lightest of touches, their hands resting against one another's, but it makes Matt's breath stutter. "And I thought, you know, following my own logic, maybe this was important stuff."

Matt swallows. "Yeah," he says, and before he can talk himself out of it, he strokes his thumb over Foggy's. "Yeah, it is."

Foggy exhales, and laces their fingers together. His fingertips rub over Matt's knuckles, over the tiny scars where they've split and healed and split again countless times; his hands aren't soft, but they're gentle. He's always gentle when he touches Matt. "All this goddamn time, and all I had to do was make you a pot of soup?"

"It wasn't the _soup_ ," he says, smiling helplessly. Knowing Foggy's attracted to him is one thing- he's always known, couldn't help but pick up the signals- but Foggy knows who Matt is, knows the terrible things Matt's capable of, and he wants him anyway. Foggy _wants him_. "You know it wasn't. I like it when you take care of me."

"Oh, Matty." Foggy says 'Matty' like other people say 'baby' or 'sweetheart', relief and affection in each syllable. "Heads up, I'm gonna kiss you," he says, and Matt is too happy to pretend he doesn't know exactly where Foggy's mouth is- he yanks his wrist to pull him close and meets him halfway across the table. Maybe, technically, he kisses Foggy first. They can argue about it later. They can argue while kissing, even, which sounds fun. It's not the best kiss Matt's ever had; there's a table between them, and neither of them can stop smiling long enough to deepen it, but it's sweet, and it's Foggy. They'll get better with practice. Lots of practice.

"Get a room," Josie grumbles, flicking the bar towel at them.

Foggy laughs against Matt's mouth, more vibration than sound, and kisses him again, soft and lingering. "Did you want to do the part where we hold hands and talk about feelings here, or in private, like civilised adults?"

"Neither," says Matt. "Talking later. Come home with me and kiss me some more."

"You've got yourself a deal, partner," Foggy says, letting go of Matt's hand. He knocks back the last of his drink, and takes the bottle back to Josie.

"Mazel tov," she says dryly. "Now get out of my bar."

Matt clings to Foggy all the way back to his apartment. Anyone who sees them probably thinks he's just a tipsy blind guy being led around, and normally that would bruise his ego a little, but Foggy is right here, and his warmth against Matt's side feels so good. He won't let Matt drag him into alleys to make out, but he keeps close, sharing his space and invading Matt's with the ease of habit, and that's enough to get them up Matt's absurd number of stairs and through his door.

Once they're inside, Matt presses Foggy against the wall, but he doesn't kiss him again; he tucks his face into the soft spot under Foggy's ear and inhales, breathing him in. The layers of scent on him unravel in Matt's nose- traces of aftershave, deodorant, shampoo, laundry detergent, coffee, scotch- and under all that, the warm human smell of him, rich and alive.

"You alright there, buddy?" Foggy has his hands under Matt's jacket, palms curving over his ribs. It would be distracting, if Matt were trying to focus on anything but him. "Thought you didn't have to get close to smell people."

"I don't have to," says Matt, lips dragging over Foggy's throat, the salt of sweat tantalizing on the tip of his tongue. "I could taste you across a room, Fog."

"Creepy," Foggy breathes, turning his head to give Matt better access. He makes fantastic sounds when Matt presses open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, quiet gasps that an ordinary ear might not fully appreciate, and the taste of his skin is everything that's been missing from Matt's sensory palette of Foggy Nelson, deeper and more nuanced than smell alone. He hums, pleased, into Matt's mouth when Matt kisses him again, and bites at Matt's lower lip.

"You like creepy," says Matt, and bites him back.

Foggy makes an appreciative noise, pulling him closer. "Not as a rule, but I'm open to trying new things. I sort of had an idea along those lines, actually," he says.

"Oh?" Matt would be fine just making out as long as Foggy wants, but Foggy's ideas are usually great. "What kind of idea?"

"An idea you are one hundred percent entitled to shoot down, FYI," Foggy says. His hair brushes over Matt's cheek. "But, while I've never had to say this before, you're sort of big into the self-denying martyrdom thing, so- you're definitely allowed to say yes, too."

"Can't say yes til you tell me what it is," says Matt.

Foggy chuckles. "I thought, maybe- to reiterate, totally fine if you just want to make out some more, that's going really well, but- do you still have those strawberries? From the Leitz case?"

"Helping a greengrocer renew their lease agreement isn't a case, especially when you get paid in fruit," says Matt. "I haven't eaten them yet, no. Why?"

"The thing, where I fed you," says Foggy. "I wanna know if that was a weird fluke, or if it was, y'know, a thing. Only if you want to, though. It is a little early to bust out the kinky stuff."

"What's kinky about eating fruit?" asks Matt, distantly. He'd been saving those strawberries- the Leitzes' organic produce was half the reason he'd agreed to help them in the first place- but now he's thinking about tasting them alongside tasting Foggy, and. Huh. Maybe that is a thing. "We can, if you want to, but I don't know what you're going to get out of it."

"Oh, buddy. You are gonna be so much fun," Foggy murmurs. He drops a kiss on the corner of Matt's mouth, lips curving in a smile. "Go wait for me in the bedroom?"

With a parting squeeze, Foggy slides out of Matt's embrace. Matt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, grounding himself, and manages to walk, not run, across his apartment. Behind him, in the kitchen, he hears the fridge door open and close, and the sound of water. He strips off his jacket. His clothes feel tight against his skin, a little stale with end-of-the-day sweat; he takes his shirt off, too, and goes to the dresser to get a t-shirt to change into. Making out in a t-shirt and slacks seems weird, when he thinks about it, so he toes off his shoes and unzips his pants, feeling for the drawer where he keeps sweatpants and workout gear.

"Whoa, hello," says Foggy from behind him. Matt, halfway through folding his slacks so they won't crease, realises abruptly how underdressed he is.

"Sorry, I was just, uh," Matt says. Foggy's heart rate is elevated, but not, he doesn't think, in a bad way. "I'll put some pants on."

"However you're comfortable." Foggy sits on the edge of Matt's bed, sets something down on the nightstand (the clink of crockery, the smell of strawberries) and starts taking off his shoes. "Boxer briefs are a strong look for you, though. I'd lose the socks, but that's a personal preference."

"You still have some clothes here, if you wanted to change," Matt says, pulling his socks off and dropping them on his shoes. "Promise I won't peek."

"Ha ha, funny guy," says Foggy. "Nah, I'm good. You wanna come over here?"

Yeah. Matt does. He moves slowly, mapping out the space between them. Foggy's heart is loud in his ears, fast and steady; he's rolling up his sleeves, like he does when he's settling in to concentrate on something, and scooting back on the bed to lean against the wall. Matt takes his glasses off, puts them down on the nightstand, and picks up the bowl of strawberries. When he breathes in, he can smell droplets of filtered water clinging to the fruit. "You washed them for me."

"I'm not a savage, Murdock. Occasionally I notice things," says Foggy mildly. "Like how you're still over there."

Matt, smiling, climbs onto the bed on his knees. Foggy takes the bowl, and guides Matt forward with gentle touches until he's straddling Foggy's thighs, all but sitting in his lap. It's intimate and strangely vulnerable, but he likes it; Foggy smells even better mingled with the scent of Matt's sheets, and the way the material of his slacks prickles against Matt's bare legs is really- he's not sure what, but it's really something. "And now I'm over here," he says, listening to Foggy's body responding to his, feeling him shift and settle.

"Here you are," says Foggy, quiet and pleased. "Can I kiss you again?"

"You don't have to ask," Matt says, laughing a little.

"I like asking," Foggy says. His hand comes up to cup Matt's jaw, and he strokes Matt's cheekbone as he kisses him. "I like it even better when I get a yes. Fruit now?"

Matt turns his head, kissing the pad of Foggy's thumb. "Yes."

Foggy takes his time about it. He picks out a strawberry, holding it by the stem; his fingers are trembling slightly, but when Matt moves to steady his hand, he pulls back, clicking his tongue. "Hands to yourself," he chides. "It doesn't count if you're helping, wiseass."

Matt laces his fingers together behind his back. The shift in position leaves him even more exposed, spine arched, throat bared. "Better?"

"Yeah," says Foggy, heart beating faster again. "Yeah, Matty, that's good." He raises the fruit to Matt's lips. Matt takes a bite.

They're very nice strawberries. He'd have passed them off to Foggy if they'd been the watery hydroponic kind, but these are sweet and sharp on his tongue, the flesh tender between his teeth. He chews slowly, letting the juice spill across his tongue, and swallows. He takes another bite, and Foggy drops the stem into the bowl, selecting another and bringing it up to Matt's mouth. It's just as sweet as the first, sweeter still when he chases it with the taste of Foggy's fingers, and the approving noise he makes gets Matt all the way hard and aching.

"You want another one?" Foggy's voice is husky already. It's making Matt _crazy_.

"Mmm-hmm." He ducks his head to bite into the proffered berry, bigger bites this time, filling his mouth. Foggy kisses him again, and he presses back eagerly, sharing the fruit between them. That should be gross, passing food between their mouths, but it feels good, intimate, and Matt's so focused on the taste that it takes him by surprise when Foggy's hand slips down to palm Matt's cock through his boxers.

"I told you," says Foggy, low and smug. "Boner vibrations. It's a gift."

It feels like one to Matt. "Let me touch you," he breathes, fingers clenching together.

"Nah." Foggy kisses his jaw, strokes his fingers over Matt's erection. Matt doesn't quite whine, but it's a near thing. "I mean, yeah, eventually, but not just yet. Can you stay in this position for me, if I ask you to? Even if I'm touching you?"

"I can," Matt says. It won't be easy- he wants to press Foggy into the mattress, to kiss him, to feel him everywhere- but he'll do it, if Foggy asks him to.

"So I can touch you wherever I want," says Foggy thoughtfully, sliding a hand up under Matt's t-shirt and rubbing his thumb over Matt's nipple. It's just enough to set Matt's sensitive skin tingling, but it makes him squirm anyway. "And you'll stay right where you are? You won't move your hands?"

"Yes, I- I mean, no. I won't move them," Matt says. Foggy pushes Matt's t-shirt up out of his way, leaving it bunched under his armpits. He runs the flat of his palm over Matt's bare chest, down over his ribs, skirting around bruises Matt's pretty sure are in the ugly stage of healing. He traces them with his fingertips, and presses a kiss to Matt's shoulder.

"Good," he says, and with a little parting squeeze, he lets go of Matt's dick to pick up another strawberry.

Time goes a little blurry for Matt, caught between the sweetness on his tongue and Foggy's touch on his body. Foggy's hands are so good, and they're everywhere, cupping his cheek, fondling his cock, skimming over his stomach. He feels lit up, a heat map of pleasure, and it just keeps going, building and building, until Matt's writhing in Foggy's lap. He can smell how turned on Foggy is; it curls off his skin like smoke, intoxicating even through clothes, and Matt can't get close enough. None of it is _enough_. "Foggy, please," he begs, breathless, canting his hips forward. "Please, I need-"

"I gotcha, sweetheart." Foggy sounds incredible, raspy with arousal, and his hands move down Matt's body, slow and easy. With his left hand, he pushes another fruit into Matt's mouth, and with his right he rubs Matt's dick, pressure and friction exactly where Matt needs it. The silk of Matt's underwear slides between them, not a tease but a caress in itself; Foggy curls his fingers downwards, palm cupping Matt's shaft, and that's it, Matt's coming, leaning in to press his face to Foggy's shoulder as he shivers through the aftershocks.

He stays there just long enough to get his breath back, nose rubbing against the skin of Foggy's throat. Foggy still smells amazing, and he wants more of that, right now. "My hands," he says, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "Can I use my hands again, please?"

"Yeah, buddy, you can," Foggy says. He sets the bowl down on the bed. Matt unclenches his hands, flexing his fingers to ease the cramping in his knuckles, and rolls his shoulders. He's held less comfortable positions for longer, but never quite like that, and he's clumsy as he unbuttons Foggy's shirt, shuffling backwards on his knees to kiss down Foggy's throat to his chest, over his belly. Every part of him Matt gets his hands on offers up new sensations- the plush softness of his belly, the downy hair on his chest, the firm muscle of his thighs- and draws out new sounds, low and thrilling in Matt's ears.

"I want to taste you," he says, hand hovering over Foggy's belt buckle. "Is that okay?"

"Yep, yes, that is very okay," says Foggy. He lets Matt unbuckle his belt, lifts his hips to get his pants and underwear off, and the scent of him fills Matt's nose, rich and complicated and delicious.

It's not Matt's most elegant work. He gets his mouth on Foggy's cock, gets a hand around the base, and just goes for it, wallowing in the taste and smell and feel of Foggy under his hands and tongue. Foggy's a gentleman, of course, tangling his fingers into Matt's hair without shoving or choking him, and Matt takes as a compliment that it only takes him a few minutes to come.

Matt strokes him through the end of it, reaching for the tissues on his nightstand. He doesn't swallow, as a rule- come is too strong for him, too much sensory information at the best of times, and he's still a little overwhelmed from the strawberries. "Good?" he asks, crawling up to flip next to Foggy on the bed.

"Very much yes," says Foggy. He puts a hand on Matt's waist, drawing him closer, and drops a kiss on his forehead. "A plus, highly recommended. You good?"

"Mm-hmm," Matt murmurs. He pulls away to peel off his shirt and underwear, wipes himself clean, and throws his clothes towards the others he left on the floor. Turning back to Foggy, he tugs at the collar of his open shirt. "Nudity and cuddling would be good, too."

"Dude, yes to cuddling," Foggy says happily, and kicks his slacks off into the floor before stripping out of his shirt. "I did not have you pegged as the post-coital snuggling type, Murdock. You're full of surprises."

"One of those days, I guess," Matt says, curling in close to Foggy's warm skin.

"Tell me about it," says Foggy. "I got to have sex with this hot coworker I have a huge gay crush on, which was pretty great."

"Huge gay crush, huh?" Matt smiles, one of those big helpless smiles Foggy draws out of him. "Lucky guy."

"Mmm, glad you think so." Foggy reaches behind him, and fishes the last strawberry out of the bowl. Without thinking, Matt opens his mouth, and lets Foggy feed him a bite; Foggy puts the other half in his own mouth and kisses Matt again, wet and a little dirty, until the fruit is gone.

Matt may never be able to taste strawberries in a public place again. It's worth it.

They kiss for a while longer, slow and lazy. "You know, at some point we're actually going to have to eat dinner," Foggy says contemplatively. "Man cannot live by berries and kissing alone."

"Objection," says Matt, mouthing absently at Foggy's shoulder. "Prosecution assumes facts not in evidence. We haven't tried living on just berries and kissing."

"Compelling argument, counselor, but allow me to remind the court that you ate most of the berries in question, and I am hungry." Foggy pats his belly for emphasis. "I propose calling out for Thai, and then making out on your couch afterwards."

"Strong proposal," Matt says. "Do I get cutlery this time?"

"Play your cards right, you won't need any," says Foggy. He sounds like he's smiling.

Matt smiles back, and goes to get his phone.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's a thing I did. Come yell with me about Daredevil (or other things, w/e) on Tumblr, where I am also [jkrockin](http://jkrockin.tumblr.com/).


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